


Vacuous Heart of Blood - Deeper M Version

by MoonStarDutchess



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Assault, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonStarDutchess/pseuds/MoonStarDutchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Riza Hawkeye despises her existence. When the twists of life tie her to Roy Mustang, a vampire, she's thrown into a new society, and has to answer questions she's never faced. What is her purpose and what is it she truly desires?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The World As She Knows It

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Full Metal Alchemist and all its characters are the property of Hiromu Arakawa. No profit was made from this fanfiction. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of original characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to the overall course of the plot and original characters if any. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
> 
> Beginning AN: This story is a character driven story, at first, some characters may not seem like “themselves”. I feel the need to type that because this story is about the why and how people do the things they do. How people adapt and change. Also the time in which this is set, is not modern, so things we know not to be false now are spoken as being true in this time.

Riza Hawkeye despised forced customs. She didn’t see the logic in pressuring people to conform to one particular ideal. People should be able to live the way they wished as long as it didn’t hurt anyone else. Unfortunately, society didn’t thrive on logic, and forced ideals were pressed onto people in all ranks of society. Men and women were golems trapped in lives most of them didn't want but were too jaded to realize it. They were educated from an early age to put their duty and status above what was in their hearts.

Her mother won her father's heart because she wasn’t one of those people. She never yearned for status and treated everyone the same regardless of rank or profession. In the short time her mother was around, she’d stressed independence. She had the freedom to choose what to wear and when to wear it, what to eat, and even where and how she spent her free time. Of course, there were obligations and times when she had to do things she despised, but it wasn’t a constant pressure.

In those days, she remembered her father as stern but loving. He’d never hesitated to tell her how proud he was of her accomplishments, and he paid no mind to the people whispering about the impropriety of them. She’d even gained the reputation of being an undeniable daddy’s girl. That was up until her mother died. After that, he still gave her the independence she loved, but he faded from an attentive father to someone who only observed her from afar. A governess took over her care. She grew to love the kind woman with her fun eccentricities and was inconsolable when she died a mere two years later. It was then she learned what loneliness felt like.

Then her father remarried and she’d lost what little attention he gave her. Her stepmother wasn’t hateful, there were times she was even likable, but the woman had turned her father into one of those golems walking around with false smiles and insincere intentions.

The hugs and grins of pride when she did something extraordinary stopped. The horseback rides they took every Sunday ceased. The few words he spoke to her were either comparisons between her and her stepsisters, or a scolding for something she wasn’t aware she did or didn’t do. She’d tried to behave while still being herself, but nothing she did was ever good enough.

It was then that she stopped trying to please him and set the goal to please herself.

She’d been relieved when he sent her to boarding school to, in his words, “learn to be a lady”. The kind of lady who would do whatever her husband told her. A lady who would discount every single one of her own intellections, needs, and desires, to please her gentleman. To do as her stepsisters had done.

Those two girls were intelligent, talented and filled with ideas, but they were nothing more than adornments for their husbands’ arm and baby machines. They were perfect only because they were pretty, married rich men, and had three children each.

Now, at twenty-eight years old, society deemed her a disgrace. No man would touch her because she was “too old” to bear “enough” children, and having children, being a good hostess, and looking pretty were what mattered most. Everything she’d never be good at doing was required.

She passed all her tests at school because she found it unreasonable to squander her father’s money. Though she was the best in her class--aside from the needlepoint class that turned out to be a disaster--there was no praise from her family and not a single relative showed up at her commencement. She’d made them believe she’d conformed only to show otherwise when she got home.

When they saw she wasn’t going to do what they wanted, her father sent her to her present location, a country mansion overlooking the village of Advina in the Vinilla region of Eastern Amestris. Advina was both a village and a large expanse of land her father owned, and it was known all over the world for its exquisite wine and cheese. She’d doltishly hoped he’d give her the task of running it, but the job belonged to Lord Frank Archer.

She stood, adjusted her nightdress, and walked over to stand in front of the doors to her balcony. She squinched her eyes as if doing so would help her see past the misty glass. Taking hold of the two door handles, she twisted them and pushed the doors open. Small bumps appeared on her bare arms and she shivered as she ventured out onto the balcony and into the new day.

When she stepped on the marble floor, she realized she wasn’t wearing her slippers. The bottoms of her feet were probably red because of the frigid contact, but she made no move to go back inside to retrieve any shoes.

She went over to the railing, leaned against it, and stared out at the brumous landscape before her. Despite not being able to see the village below or the land in the distance, she had their images visualized in her mind. If the fog weren’t shrouding them, the grey mountains could be spotted in the far distance, their peaks hidden by ever-present cloud cover. In front of them and to their right and left, the forests of pine trees and thick redwoods towered over every structure save the mountains themselves.

To the left of the mountain, through the forest, a dirt road twisted and turned through small canyons. Every time it rained, the road would turn into mud so thick it would clump onto the wheels of any carriage or wagon attempting to journey in and out of the village, rendering them immobile, and delaying any shipments to and from the village.

Due to the isolation, no one here cared about her matrimonial status. She got looks of pity at times when she ventured into the village, something her maid hated her doing, but never any pressure from the populous. If there were rumors about her, she’d never heard them.

She shivered again but stayed in her spot until the sun rose into the sky and burned off the fog. Her lips dropped into a frown because the rising sun meant an unwelcome visitor would arrive for breakfast. But first, there’d be a knock on the bedroom door, courtesy of her maid.

When a horse neighed in the distance, she looked out at the gates and saw Frank Archer riding toward the house.

_One. . . Two. . . Three. . ._

As predicted, there was a knock at the door. She remained stationary as Marianna entered without permission. At the sound of the doors opening Riza said, “Tell Arnold to oil the hinges.” She knew Marianna would ignore her comment.

“Miss Riza, come inside quickly.” Riza rolled her eyes. She even knew the face and posture accompanying the woman’s voice: brows were furrowed, her jaws sucked in slightly, like a fish, and she rested her hands on her hips with one knee bent, giving her an asymmetrical stance.

“Why?” There was no benefit in saying more or in protesting. Talking to Marianna was like trying to take tea and conversation with someone who didn’t speak your language. You could talk all you wanted, but they’d never understand what you were saying.

“Because you’re going to catch your death out there. You aren’t dressed properly. More importantly, it’s Monday and Lord Archer is coming for breakfast.”

Riza leaned further against the balcony railing. She quirked the right side of her lips due to morbid amusement as she processed Marianna's statements. _More importantly._ Greeting and entertaining Lord Archer was clearly a more important reason for her to come in and get dressed than the chance of dying from a cold.

Marianna’s shoes clicked on the hardwood floor, growing louder as they approached and changing noises as they hit the rug, then the marble balcony platform. Riza glanced to her left and saw her standing there with a scathing look.

“This is unacceptable by your father’s standards. Please behave.”

Riza stared at Marianna, studying the lines on the older woman's face, taking in the creases, which fit together like the engraved maps she once saw on the walls of an archaeological exhibit at a museum.

"Shame." She didn't speak anything else that would make the single syllable word have more of a meaning. Never formed it into anything resembling a sentence. She spoke the word three more times before leaving Marianna with a bewildered look on her face.

Riza walked over to her closet and removed a simple red dress from the dozens of other dresses hanging there. She draped it over a chair and then walked over to her dresser to retrieve her under things.

"This won't do. Lord Archer is here," Marianna said. Riza turned and saw the woman hang up the red dress, then she began taking down layers of clothing. "Remember the rule. If you can dress yourself then you aren't going to look like a proper lady."

"Four layers of clothing are ridiculous for average days and I won't wear them all." In fact, four layers of clothing are ridiculous for any time."

Marianna frowned. "Don’t be difficult. At least be willing to compromise, please."

Riza sighed and plopped down on the trunk in front of her bed. "No hoop skirt. It’s too heavy, and I’m wearing my everyday undergarments. I don't need three petticoats or those expensive stockings."

Marianna looked at her strangely.

“Go ahead and say whatever you want to say.”

"I figured you'd argue about the corset."

"I would be fighting a losing battle," she said. "And get something homelier. It's breakfast, not a party."

"From what I hear, Lord Archer likes-"

"I think we need to establish my indifference to what Lord Archer likes. If he’s displeased at the way I come down to breakfast in my own home, he can leave. There will be no tears lost if he does so. The only reason I'm compromising with you is because I don't feel like arguing."

"Must you always be so hostile?" Marianna put back the fancy dress in favor of something simpler, though not by much. "At least this already has a piece attached to make the dress flare out respectably. Is this fine, or do you want to make my job so much harder.”

“Fine,” Riza said and stood. “Marianna, I’m not trying to be difficult, I’m trying to be myself.”

“And that makes you difficult.”

Riza eyed the whalebone corset distastefully but put up no fight as Marianna helped her dress.

When finished, Marianna reached for the comb on the dresser, but Riza took it first. “Go take care of Archer, I’ll fix my hair. I’ll be downstairs in a moment.”

“Please don’t pin it up so messily like you normally do. It looks like you’ve been hit by lightning when you do it that way.”

“Fine, I’ll put it up in the morning bun.” She despised the atrocious hairstyle. It resembled one of the giant cinnamon rolls the baker made in town, but the flower typically inserted in the middle of it was what made it truly horrendous. She refused to add it.

Riza ushered Marianna out of the room, shut the door, and locked it. She took a step and faltered as her high shoes—Marianna insisted she wear them to make herself taller—squeezed her feet.

Riza moved over to stand in front of the full-length mirror to take in her entire appearance. Who decided women needed to look like those rose decorations on top of cakes? No, a better thought was what kind of burning herbs were they around when the idea came upon them.

She steeled her disposition then exited her room and went down the stairs. Once she got through the next hour with Archer, she’d change into some comfortable clothing and footwear.

**-/-/-/-**

She was halfway down the stairs when Archer appeared in the entryway. She plastered on a smile. It wasn't easy smiling at someone when you had the overwhelming desire to rip out their throat, but if her schooling taught her anything, it was to mask her emotions, and she took pride in having the perfect poker face.

Fondness didn’t strike her when she met most men, but she usually had the ability to find some good in them. Archer was no different, he had positive points, but his ego overshadowed them. He'd gloat his greatness and accomplishments every chance he got but only once someone mentioned them. He was a master at subtle self-praise.

While it was true he saved many Amestrian soldiers during the Ishbalan war, he also had much blood on his hands and didn’t care. He basked in all the prestige having a hand in “wiping the barbarians off the face of the earth,” afforded him. The Ishbalans had been far from barbarians. They were only different, but different made people nervous.

Women flocked to him, praised his greatness, and worshiped his valor in battle. They all found him incredibly attractive and longed to be the woman he’d pick to be his wife. All of the men, including her father, respected him.

She often compared him to the poisonous, nocturnal Borok lizards. They were dangerous, hostile when provoked, and something Riza took care to avoid during the times she ventured out at night. Both had reddish eyes that looked like they wanted to devour her and suck out any spirit she had within her body, and if she didn't know better, she’d swear Archer had a forked tongue like the reptiles.

A vicious temper brewed underneath his calm exterior, and it was only a matter of time before it exploded. She didn’t want to be around when it did because if he directed his biliousness at her, she’d kill him.

"Miss Riza, you look lovely this morning.” He extended his hand to her, helping her step down the last few stairs. "I hope I’m not imposing on you."

Riza removed her hand from his. He said the same thing every time he came. The man didn't care whom he imposed on and where he did it."No imposition. Please, come have breakfast,” she said even though she wanted to tell him to get out and never darken her doorstep again.

 

 


	2. Sanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Full Metal Alchemist and all its characters are the property of Hiromu Arakawa. No profit was made from this fanfiction. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of original characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to the overall course of the plot and original characters if any. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING! WARNING!Content in this chapter may be a trigger.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Riza always sat on the opposite end of the long dining table whenever he came for breakfast. When she was a child she detested such tables, but now she treasured the distance between Archer and her.

She began eating as soon as the maid brought in the food and didn’t bother to start any chitchat. Archer wouldn’t stay quiet for long anyway.

“I received a message from your stepmother the other day. She will be coming here with your father tomorrow," Archer stated as he picked up his fork.

Riza stopped chewing and swallowed her food before saying, "I never got any message."

"I assume she thought we might be courting, so she sent it to me.”

She swallowed hard and her appetite died at the thought of Archer romancing her. Her stepmother was going to be disappointed when she found out that wasn’t happening and wasn’t going to happen.

She lifted her orange juice to her lips to get rid of the bitter taste in her mouth and to quench her sudden thirst.“What in heaven's name would give her that idea,” she said even though she already knew. She took another sip of juice.

“She thinks we’d make a good match, and I have to agree with her. If you’d permit me, I would like to begin courting you properly. I find you to be a wonderful woman, and I would be pleased to take you as a wife. I think you’d be a perfect add to my estate."

Riza choked on her drink and coughed several times, at the same time straining to get air. She grabbed a napkin to cover her mouth and felt some of the orange juice drift past her lips and onto the cloth. Though she'd been expecting something along the lines of him offering to court her, she hadn't expected such a simple segue into it.

_Add to his estate. He’s such an arrogant, ass kissing. . ._

She laid her napkin on the table and stared at him pointedly while trying to think of a truthful yet polite way of turning him down. Go to hell you whoreson wouldn’t suffice. "Lord Archer, as flattered as I am about your offer, I don’t carry any feelings for you beyond that of a simple friend."

_I outdid myself on the fake usage of the word friend._

"What do feelings have to do with anything?"

 _I knew that was coming._ "To me, they have everything to do with a relationship.”

He laughed. "My dear, you—"

"My dear, is not my name, Lord Archer. Decorum dictates you call me Miss Riza unless I give you permission to address me in another manner."

Archer narrowed his eyes for a moment before returning to his normal facial expression. "Forgive me, Miss Riza, but don’t you think a beautiful woman like you, married to me, would bring greater status to yourself and your family? I’m a war hero and well respected after all."

"Yes, I'm aware of all of those things, but I have no intention to bend to society’s will. The rumors you’ve heard about me being a mulish, nonconformist are true."

"Those characteristics make you more appealing.” He stood and went over to sit beside her. When he took her hand in his, it felt like she’d stuck it in cold seaweed.

"Your spirit is admirable, but how long do you think your father will put up with your disobedience?”

Riza wrenched her hand out of his grasp. "My father has not ordered me to accept your advances.” She scooted her chair away from the table and got to her feet. “And on that note, breakfast is over. I think it’s safe to assume you know your way out.”

Archer stood and grabbed her, causing her to yelp in surprise. He pressed her body against his and growled with such a threatening quality it made Riza question if his saliva was venomous. She reached with one arm toward the bow on her back to get out a small knife she carried there and cursed herself for leaving her gun upstairs.

"You should learn your place. I'll have you eventually. I'll eradicate your insubordinate streak until you’re an obedient wife who spreads her legs when I tell her and shuts up when I order it."

He slammed his lips against hers and shoved his tongue into her mouth. Riza struggled to reach for her knife, only to find it wasn't where she put it. If she hadn't been in the ridiculous clothing, she would’ve been able to get him away from her without a weapon. She moved her hand to table behind her, feeling around until she found the handle of the fork resting against her plate. She grabbed it and raked it across his cheek. He yelled and threw her away from him, sending her crashing against the chair and tumbling to the floor.

Archer’s footsteps thundered closer to her, the threat of bodily harm showed in every feature on his face.

She refused to show him any fear and said with the loudest voice she could, “Get the hell out of my house, now!”

Upon hearing her, the servants from both the kitchen and the yard ran inside. Jacob, the cook, helped her stand. "Lord Archer is leaving, Phillip," she said to the man in charge of the stables. "Get his horse."

She stormed out of the room before her anger got the better of her judgment, and she ended up stabbing him in the heart. When she arrived at the stairs, she kicked off her tight shoes, picked them up, and hurled them against the wall. No more of those. She lifted her dress so she wouldn't trip and ascended the stairs, going straight to her room and into her large closet to discard her clothing.

The beginnings of a bruise were already upon her skin by the time she undressed, and the area ached with every inhale.

"Miss Riza," Marianna said, rushing into the closet. "What in heaven's name happe—My god, you’re—"

"Get out.” Riza grabbed her robe off a hanger and slipped it on.

"But we should call a doctor."

“It’s just a bruise. It’s not as if I lost a limb. I’ll be—”

“But—”

Riza turned to the woman, annoyed that she wouldn’t listen and her eyes burning with very ounce of hatred she possessed for Frank Archer. “Marianna, leave now.”

Marianna stilled for long enough Riza was unsure if she’d do as ordered, but then she turned and left without argument.

Riza left the closet when she heard the door to her bedroom shut and walked over to the brown trunk sitting at the foot of her bed. She unlocked and opened it, then removed a small bottle of liquor she kept there. She wasn't much of a drinker, but she occasionally needed the whiskey for more than consuming.

She went into the bathroom and took a huge drink from the bottle, her hand shaking as she lifted it to her lips. She swished the liquid in her mouth before spitting it out into the sink. Lifting the bottle to her lips once again, she took a long drink, swallowing every bit of the alcohol without flinching.

"Bastard," she muttered. _No one will lay a hand on me without my permission ever again. I will make sure of that._

She tossed a washcloth into the basin she’d filled with water, so she could wash off the lipstick that smeared onto her skin. She reached up with the other hand to remove the despicable earrings she wore to placate Marianna and threw them onto the table where the basin sat, paying no mind when the catches fell to the floor.

Then she went to work, snatching up the cloth and rubbing her lips and anywhere else the lipstick was present. After wringing out the cloth, she rubbed off the eye makeup. Then she looked up, into the mirror, and let out a chuckle when she saw black streak remnants made from the wet cosmetics. She looked like the creatures she used to read about in her late mother's books: Lamiae. Known as vampires to those who weren't familiar with the other term.

When her face was void of any false colors, she walked out of the bathroom and over to her vanity.

She jerked the pins out of her hair, wincing every time a strand pulled out with them. The fierce actions induced no more pain than the derisory hairstyle it was in before she took it down. Every proper hairstyle for women was painful. Every single meaningless social rule was a headache, and her life was a temple splitting migraine. People around her were small pulsating pains every time they told her she was dressing wrong, speaking wrong, needed to shut up, needed to smile, and so on.

She yanked the final hairpin out, and her hair fell down her back, its end reaching her mid thigh. “I could play Rapunzel,” she muttered. She hurled the pin across the room, the action oddly satisfying, before jerking a drawer open. The entire drawer came out of the bureau and crashed to the floor, dispelling the contents across the hardwood.

Instead of moving to pick up the drawer and items, she knelt and went about casting aside the things she didn’t want, hurling them across the room to join wherever her hairpin had landed.

It never occurred to her that she didn’t know what she was after in the first place. She wanted . . . something. Wanted control over something. “I’m not going to find control in a dresser drawer,” she said aloud.

If people saw her current state, they’d want to commit her to an asylum. If they accused her of being mad, she wouldn’t deny it.

Being locked away in a padded room, as long as she wasn’t drugged, wouldn’t be so bad. In a way, she’d be among her own kind. Everyone thought she was weird anyway, so she might as well lay claim to those titles.

Knowing her luck people would say her insanity was due to witchcraft or accuse her of being a witch. Though she didn’t live near the area where all the ridiculous witch accusations and burnings were occurring, she had the best chance of being the first in this area.

She looked down at her hand when she felt a prick and saw her finger had hit a pair of scissors. She gazed at the drop of blood coming from her body and watched as it ran over her skin, onto the blade and down over the sharp silver metal.

She lifted them with one hand and lifted the cut finger up to eye level. Skin wasn’t the only thing scissors could cut. She stood and sat down on the bench in front of the dresser. She’d cut something. No one was here to tell her she couldn’t, and she wasn’t hurting herself.

She combed her hair and cut an inch off the bottom. Then came two inches. Then three. Her head felt lighter with every lock that fell beside and behind her feet. Her posture felt straighter. Her face felt cleaner.

She leaned closer to the mirror when her hair was chin length and pictured the women she saw in Creta during a trip years ago. Their short hair looked so lovely that she’d wanted to copy the hairstyle. Her father had been adamantly against it, but she’d been a teenager at the time.

She clipped more hair until she got it into the shape she wanted. Then she started on the fringes in front of her face. They’d been as long as her hair, so she had to brush some into a proper position. She took the scissors and began with one large cut.

When satisfied with what she saw, she put the scissors down and smiled. It wasn’t as elegant as the long hair or as proper as the pinned, but if she went to Creta, she’d be able to fit in. For once, she appreciated her appearance.

She picked up a brush and pushed the fringes to the side before brushing the rest of her hair.

“Have you gone crazy? What have you done?”

Riza hadn’t heard a knock on the door, much less heard it open. She looked at Marianna using the reflection in the mirror. “No, I haven't gone crazy. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been saner.”


	3. Obsession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Full Metal Alchemist and all its characters are the property of Hiromu Arakawa. No profit was made from this fanfiction. The only things that I do own are the OC's. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of original characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to the overall course of the plot. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
> 
>  
> 
> AN: WARNING: Assault. Nothing written vividly but still may be a trigger.

     

Archer counted to himself, trying to restrain his temper the same way he did when someone angered him in public, but he’d never been so furious with someone before. When he arrived at his front door, his temper got the better of him and he kicked it. The knob slammed into the plaster wall and the door remained open.

When he entered his library, he threw his hat onto the small sofa and tossed his coat onto a nearby chair. Then he headed over to the bar in the corner of the room, took out a glass, and reached for the decanter where he stored his whiskey. Removing the cork, he moved to pour himself a glass only to find the container was empty. He stared at it and began counting again. The crystal decanter had been a gift from his late parents, and the last thing he wanted to do was lose his temper and throw it across the room.

“Kerstin!” he yelled and waited a moment before repeating his shout.

A blond woman rushed into the room, her apron and hair in disarray due to her hurriedness. He held the decanter toward her in what she promptly took as a wordless direction to refill it. She gingerly took it from his grasp and maneuvered around the furniture so she could leave the room.

He put his glass down and walked over to the window to stare out at the village. He watched as the children left for school and the women telling their husbands goodbye as they walked toward the factories. He had more than they did, yet remained single.

But it was his fault. He had everything going for him. Two large homes, he was good looking, had lots of money, and was a war hero. He could have any single woman in society if he wanted her, but he was stuck on Riza. She had the title and the property he wanted. Her position would exalt him into the higher echelon of society, and he’d be damned before he gave up on acquiring her.

He loved a challenge and she was the most appealing one he’d ever come across. He admired her shrewdness and her unassailable spirit. To break it would be like trying to break a serrated doubled edged blade with ones bare hands. He’d have to crack her bit by bit.

He lifted his hand and touched the cut on his face. She was a resourceful termagant as well. It annoyed him yet turned him on. To destroy her until she couldn’t function properly and then mold her into what he needed would be his greatest achievement. She’d be the perfect, submissive, and most elegant wife in the country.

He knew that elegance was there, and if he could manipulate her parents in the right direction, he would get her. They all would apply so much close pressure on her she’d break and marry him. From the handful of times he met Lady Hawkeye, he could tell she craved her own status and focused on keeping her husband at his proper position. Lady Hawkeye clearly thought Riza an embarrassment.

When he heard a noise behind him, he turned. Kerstin entered the room carrying a newly filled decanter. She uncorked it and poured the liquid into a glass. Her blond hair was pinned up similarly to Riza’s. And her body wasn't much different either. . .

He stalked over to the door, shut, and locked it before creeping up behind her. Upon closer inspection, he saw she was taller than Riza by a few inches. She wasn’t as curvy nor did she carry the smell Riza did, but she’d fit his needs if he used a bit of imagination.

He reached up and removed the hair band from her head. She jumped. He grabbed her upper arms and turned her around.

“Lo…Lord Archer.” He took a step forward, pressing his body against her shaking one.

“I’m going to add some other duties to yours from now on,” he said and pressed his lips against hers. Even though she didn't struggle against him, he tightened his hold on her. When he pulled away, she was looking down. His fingers tightened even more.

“Sir, you’re…you’re hurting me,” she said but didn’t move.

“Look me in the eyes.” She did as ordered, her green eyes meeting his red ones. They weren’t nearly has spirited as Riza’s, nor as fiery, both characteristics drained from Kerstin long ago. She’d still have to be the one to quench him until he could have Riza. He threw her onto the couch, the front tilting off the ground for a moment before settling down on the floor with a thump. She tried to sit up but he pushed her down.

“Stay still and I won’t hurt you,” he said.

“Sir, I don’t understand.” He lifted her dress and reached under it. “Sir! Don’t do th—“

“You're my property. You won’t tell me what I do with my property. Do you understand?”

“Ye…Yes sir.”

_No spirit, no fight, extremely boring._ He grabbed her arm and yanked her from the chair. “Go up to my bedroom and stay there. From now on, you’re Riza Hawkeye whenever you’re there.”

**-/-/-/-**

Riza stuck her head out of her bedroom doorway and searched the hall. When she saw it was void of any of the household staff, she walked out. Her favorite book was secure in her grasp, and her sunhat was perched on her head.

She closed and locked her door before tiptoeing down the stairs. Any accidental click of her shoes against the floor would echo and alert someone she was descending into the foyer. The staff had the uncanny ability to hear noises when she didn’t want them to.

If she managed to leave the house without drawing attention to herself, she’d be feted with the pleasure of sitting under the large oak tree at the top of the hill and enjoying the peaceful morning with a good book.

A smile formed on her lips when she made it to the front door without anyone detecting she was awake and astir. The brass knob decided the silence wasn’t enough and clicked when she turned it. Freezing in her motions, she waited a moment to see if anyone was going to come into the room.

When no one made an appearance, she pulled the door toward her, affording her a path to temporary freedom. She was exceedingly grateful they chose to oil all the hinges in the house and not only the squeaky ones in her bedroom.

She stepped onto the small porch protruding from the stone mansion. The cool morning was a welcome change from the house that was hot enough inside to grow tropical plants. Her smile turned from one of satisfaction of making it out of the house, to one of pleasure at the coming day.

She hugged her book tight against her chest with both arms before walking down the first two steps. Her good mood drowned when she heard the front door open and a voice say, "Where do you think you’re going?”

Riza slouched. “Apparently, I’m not going anywhere now. I was planning to read where I could get some peace and quiet.”

“Not this morning. Don’t you remember? Your father and Lady Amelia are coming here today. You need to eat breakfast and get dressed in something more appropriate. I can’t believe you were going to waste your day reading nonsense.” She grabbed the book from Riza’s hand and frowned at the title engraved in the thick cover.

Riza jerked the book away from Marianna. “Reading a book isn’t wasting the day and it isn’t nonsense.”

“Books give you ideas.”

“You say that like it’s a frightful thing. The world might not be the way it is if more women read books about something other than cooking and proper etiquette.”

Marianna lifted a hand to her temple and massaged it with two fingers as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Riza was surprised at the admission, but before she could respond Marianna followed up with, “Your father is going to discharge me when he finds out how you’re acting. Couldn’t you at least pretend you’re turning into a proper lady?”

“I want to know exactly what you mean.” The lilt she used to phrase her question was one of utmost interest. She laughed softly, making sure to add a false menacing undertone. She knew her maid hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

Marianna’s eyes broadened when she heard the mischievous laughter. She caught Riza by the shoulders. “Surely, you wouldn’t think of doing anything to get me in trouble?”

Riza smiled smugly, pulled away, and ascended the steps. “Your slip-up is going to be exceedingly beneficial for me.”

“You wouldn’t blackmail me.”

Riza glanced over her shoulder as she walked to the door. “Don’t be so confident of that.”

**-/-/-/-**

“Lord Archer?” the maid said meekly from her place in his bed. He glanced over his shoulder at her as he dressed and felt disgusted that it was anyone other than Riza. That he'd stooped low enough to sleep with the help. Her body had satisfied him sexually, yes, but he’d have to work on making her a bit less willing. Women already broken by society were much too easy to manipulate, that made her less appealing. “Am I to stay in this room all the time?”

At least she was gutsy enough to question him. “Don’t think that this changes your position or your everyday duties. You don’t live here and this isn’t your room. You come here after your duties and wait for me.”

“Every night?”

“Yes. And you're to stay until I kick you out, and I’m kicking you out now. Get dressed and get to work.”

“Yes, sir." She scampered up from the bed; he heard a thump and turned to see her standing on wobbling feet. She’d been an innocent, and he hadn’t been as careful as he should have. He glanced at the sheets, seeing splotches of blood on them.

During the sex the previous night, all he could think about was Riza lying under him. Riza wouldn’t have lain there as the maid did. She would’ve fought until she broke. Unlike he did with Kerstin, he would’ve made sure Riza was as pleased as he was in the bedroom. She would fight it at first, but then she’d learn to be content.

“You're not to tell anyone of our relationship. That goes without saying."

"Yes, sir."

He slipped on his coat. "You’ll be in charge of cleaning this room now as well. Notify the head maid of this. Get rid of those sheets after you get dressed as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

_Predictable. Boring._ Yes, Kerstin was frightfully dull.

**-/-/-/-**

Riza shut her book when she heard the rapid footfalls of horses and the rattle of a carriage. Standing from the soft lounge she rested upon, she moved to the edge of the balcony and looked toward the gate.

A white and sky blue carriage made its way through the large gates of the estate. She wrinkled her nose at the impractical colors and assumed her stepmother chose them since her father despised lighter shades.

She looked toward her door when she heard it unlock and open. Marianna entered. “Your parents are coming.”

Riza tossed her book onto the bed and stood in front of Marianna. She held out her hand. The maid looked down at her palm then up at her, a questioning look on her expression.

“Give me my room key please.”

She took a step back as if Riza was going to strike her and shoved her hand in her apron pocket. “I only keep this key so I can check on you. If you feel sick or something how would I—”

“Give it to me. If you don’t, I’ll misbehave so much you’ll get thrown out on your head.”

Marianna pulled out the key and put it in Riza’s palm. Riza smiled and hid it in her sleeve. “Are there anymore?”

“No.”

“You aren’t lying are you?”

Marianna looked insulted. “I would in no way lie to you. Even if ordered, I do not lie.”

“You're right. I’m sorry.” It was true. No matter how brutal the truth was, Marianna never lied to her. “I’ll give it back to you when father and stepmother leave.”

“Why take it in the first place?”

“If my stepmother found out you had a key, she’d take it and go snooping. She’d probably end up throwing out some of my prized possessions because they’re not proper to have in a lady’s room.” She picked up the brush from her vanity. “This dress is appropriate, yes?”

“Yes, and you look lovely. Your father can’t complain about that at least.”

Riza stroked her hair a few times with the brush and sat it down. “I expect the complaints to be centered on my hair, then my behavior.”

Marianna walked over to a small hatbox sitting on the dressing table and sifted through it. She turned and clipped a large white rose clip behind Riza’s ear. “There,” she said. “Even if we can’t instantly grow out your hair, at least we can make it look more feminine so you don’t get rebuked as harshly.”

“Don’t you mean so you won’t get rebuked as harshly?”

“That too.” Marianna tilted her head and studied her. Riza shifted under her scrutiny. “Honestly, between you and me, I find your hairstyle cute. It makes you look younger."

“Marianna, are you in there? Lord and Lady Hawkeye are getting out of the carriage,” they heard someone call at the door.

“Coming!” She turned to Riza. “You’re father will call you down soon.”

“You’re not going to make me greet them at the door?”

“I’ll spare you and give you time to prepare yourself."

Riza watched the woman leave the room then settled in the chair beside her bed. No amount of preparation would be sufficient to deal with them. She’d never admit to anyone that she wanted their approval and sometimes wished she could be like everyone else and marry, have children, and be content with that.

“I just want them to leave me alone,” she said and slouched down into the warm, embracing piece of furniture. Her self-esteem always crashed whenever they visited her, and this time she had a feeling things were going to change and not in the way she wished. She was tempted to go downstairs and face it head on, but the cowardly side of her refused to budge from her seat.

 

 

 

 


	4. Faltering Father and Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Full Metal Alchemist and all its characters are the property of Hiromu Arakawa. No profit was made from this fanfiction. The only things that I do own are the OC's. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of original characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to the overall course of the plot. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

"Marianna, where's my daughter," Hawkeye said as soon as he and his wife passed the threshold. Marianna wished for once when he visited he would first inquire how Riza was instead of where she was.

"Dear, you need to calm down," Lady Hawkeye said as she handed the butler her cloak. "Let's have something hot to drink first."

"I have the cook preparing some hot cider and there's a fire in the den," Marianna said.

"Bring my daughter down here now," Hawkeye said. "We all can have something while I speak to her."

_Considering your daughter’s mental state lately, she might throw the drink in your face._

“You’re so tired and upset, Berthold. Why don’t you let me talk with her since I’m calmer?” Amelia said.

_The woman must have a death wish._

“She’s my responsibility. Marianna, go get her.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lady Hawkeye turned toward the butler. “I’ll have my drink in the bedroom. I must freshen up a bit.” She ascended the steps and the butler bowed before retreating.

Marianna started to go upstairs but paused at the sound of Hawkeye’s voice. “Marianna, is Riza all right? How has she been doing?”

Marianna would've fallen if she hadn't had her hand on the stair railing. She turned toward him, noting the way his voice softened when he asked those questions. If Hawkeye could show that same softness to Riza then perhaps she wouldn’t be so difficult. “Still the same.”

“Stubborn?”

“Of course.”

He sighed and nodded before entering the den.

“Status or not, I prefer Miss Riza to them,” the butler said.

“I’m inclined to agree with you. Especially regarding the Lady Hawkeye. When I encounter her, I feel sorry I have to be so stern with Miss Riza. She may be a lady but she doesn’t need to act like such a . . . never mind.” It wouldn’t do good to call her employer such names. “Have Harriet take her drink up to her room when it's ready.”

“Right. The tube-nosed fruit bat shall have her drink,” he said.

Marianna chuckled and went up the stairs to get Riza.

 

**-/-/-**

Riza was sitting peacefully in her room when the doors flew open. She shot to her feet, realizing Marianna hadn’t locked them when she left, and the maid wouldn’t open the doors in such a manner. Although she often came in unannounced, there was timidity to her entrances. She turned toward the doorway and glared when she saw who entered. Her stepmother’s next words made her go from annoyed to angry.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“I’ve been in the room since I’ve moved here, it’s safe to say I have claim to it,” Riza said, her voice full of virulent tones and tart lilts.

“Get out of it. I’m the mistress of this household, and I’ll have the master bedroom as per—Your hair! What did you do?”

"Cut it," she said.

"Well, I can see that, but it looks so—Oh, I'll just let your father handle it. Now, if you don't mind . . ."

Riza stalked toward the woman. “Why must you always start a fight?"

"Excuse me?"

"You knew I’d be here. You just wanted an excuse to start something and you know it. You’re a guest here and there’s a perfectly good room down the hall. I suggest you employ it.”

Riza shoved the woman out of her room, grabbed the doors' handles, and slammed the doors shut, the bang echoing through the hallway.”

Lady Hawkeye sighed, slouched, and then muttered, “That could’ve gone better.” The act of stern stepmother was tiring. She wouldn't have to be so bitchy if the girl just conformed.

She jerked around when Marianna got to the top of the stairs. “What is she doing in the master bedroom?”

Marianna gritted her teeth. If she disrespected the woman, she’d lose her job. “Miss Riza lives here and is in charge of the household. Isn’t it proper for her to reside there?”

She saw Lady Hawkeye hesitate for a moment before she said, “Have her things moved. We’ll be staying here for a while. I won’t stay in a guest room.”

“But….”

“Fine. If you won’t follow my orders then we’ll see what my husband—“

The doors behind her opened. “Stop your complaining,” Riza said and walked into the hallway. She directed her focus onto Marianna. “I assume my father wants to speak with me.”

“Yes.”

Riza turned toward the doors, shut, then locked them. She took the key, flashed it at her stepmother, and then hid it in the pocket in her sleeve before turning on her heel and sauntering down the stairs.

Marianna coughed to hide her laughter upon seeing the look on Lady Hawkeye’s face. She looked away when the woman turned her green glance toward her.

“Where’s the room?” she asked and made no motion toward the master bedroom.

“They put your luggage in the largest guest room. This way,” Marianna said and guided the woman to the proper room.

 

**-/-/-**

 

Riza arrived at the den where she knew her father would spend the majority of his time during the stay. No matter how much Marianna insist she spend time in that room—it was the warmest place in the house—she refused. She didn’t want anything to remind her of him, and this placed reeked of his cigar smell no matter how long he was gone.

She stopped at the threshold and gazed at him a moment. He was leaning against the fireplace and staring at the flames consuming the wood in the hearth. His right hand rested against the stone mantle while his left hand held a mug with steam rising from the liquid inside. The side of his face viewable from her position was devoid of any types of blemishes, and there were no signs of senescence puckered anywhere in his skin. Dark circles dyed the area under his eyes, often a testament to lack of food or sleep. He now had a full beard instead of the small patch of whiskers she remembered on his chin.

“That beard makes you look like a tyrant,” Riza said. He straightened his posture and turned towards her, his hazel eyes, eyes she inherited, looked at her. The incline of his mouth moved upward in what she figured was the best smile he could execute. She took it as a sign to enter the room. She closed the door and locked it so her stepmother wouldn’t be able to encroach upon their conversation.

His smile faded as soon as she stepped closer. “Your mother and I stopped by Archer’s estate before coming here.”

 _Of course you did. How foolish of me to think you’d be so anxious to see me that you’d come straight here._ “I know a hug is too much to ask for, but I don’t even get a hello?”

“You refused him,” he said. “You even went as far as to hit him with an eating utensil. Have you become delirious? Have you lost any decorum you learned in school?” He sat his mug upon the mantel.

“Did Archer happen to tell you why I hit him?” Riza shuddered as she remembered the way his hands felt on her.

“You had a reason?”

“I certainly don’t go around stabbing men with cutlery for fun.” She walked to the small bar in the corner, poured herself a glass of brandy, and took a sip. When she noticed the way her father focused on her, she said, “I don’t drink often, but I need something to steady my nerves before we commence our arguing.”

“You talk like we argue all the time.”

She decided not to respond to his statement and instead continued on the topic of Archer. “I hit Archer because he kissed me without my permission and touched me in an improper manner. The fork was the only thing within my grasp. He’d be dead if I hadn’t left my revolver in my room.”

“That’s a problem.” Hawkeye sat down in the chair across from her when she took a seat.

“It’s not a problem. If he touches me again, I’ll kill him. I despise the asshat.”

“Asshat?”

“Someone who has his head stuck so far up his own arse it serves as a hat.”

She was surprised when she heard a chuckle come from him. “What an unrefined thing to say.”

“It doesn’t surprise you, does it?”

“No, it doesn't surprise me," he said. He leaned forward and rested his elbow on his knees before perching his chin on his hand. “What am I going to do with you? Your stepmother is dead set on you marrying Archer.”

“I have a little,—” Riza made a pinching gesture with her fingers, “—suggestion for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“How about saying no to her for a change? Besides, I’m your daughter. Not hers. She needs to focus on her little angels and leave me alone.”

“Or I could make you marry him.”

“And I could jump off a balcony before you knew what was happening. And I do have a gun. One trigger pull and you’d be rid of your problem. You know I never go back on my word, and I promise I will kill myself before I marry Archer.”

“Stop speaking like that. The thought makes me sick. I do care what happens to you.”

“Yes, the scandal of a daughter committing suicide would be a mark on your excellent social graces.” She tried to run her hand through her hair, forgetting it wasn’t long anymore.

“What earth happened to make you cut your hair so short?” he said. It was surprising that he’d just noticed the cut. She'd expected him to erupt the moment she entered the room.

“Happened? Nothing. I wanted to cut it.” If she were honest, while she liked the hairstyle and found it comfortable, she regretted the actions. It was an instance of impermanent madness and the first time the madness spilled over into something so spur of the moment.

“Damn you! Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself,” he said and stood with an angry flourish.

“And here it comes.” As expected, her hair was the catalyst to start the argument between them this time.

“You should at least care about your appearance even if you aren’t going to follow protocol. Now my hair is longer than yours.”

“Yes, you should cut it. You look ridiculous. You always kept it cut when mother was –“

“Stop bringing up the past,” Hawkeye snapped and walked back over to the fire. His voice soothed. “I don’t want to discuss your mother.”

“If you kept her in your mind then—”

“I suggest you hold your tongue. I let you get by with much of your noisome talk but do not begin to speak ill of my wife.”

“I wasn’t going t—”

“You’ll treat her with respect. Her name is Amelia. I suggest you use either it or mother. Do you understand?”

Riza slammed her glass down on the side table and got to her feet. “You still never listen do you? Not unless someone is stroking your ego or it’s one of the golden children speaking. Are you through with your yearly objurgating, or do you have something new to add?”

“You’re making me think I was too hasty in taking your side regarding Archer. With the way you’re acting now, he probably had a right to do what he did to put you in your place. If he did what you accused him of doing.”

Riza’s conscious warned her not to take the actions her temper willed her to do, but before she could stop herself, she’d stomped over to her father and struck him across his face.

And it felt good.

“No one has a right to touch me without permission. You always told me that growing up, but I guess because I don’t fit your definition of a lady I can be treated as someone’s whore?”

“Have you gone mad? How could you hit your father?”

Her anger grew when he didn't reply to her statement. “The man I hit isn’t my father.” Her eyes met his and his face contorted with shock.

“Riza, you’re being ridiculous.”

“My father would know I wouldn’t make up a lie so loathful no matter how much I despised a person.”

Hawkeye placed a hand on Riza’s shoulder, but she jerked away and his hand dropped to his side. “I know you wouldn’t. I lost my head for a moment. I don’t like you speaking ill of Amelia when she cares about you.”

Riza laughed. “Where did I speak ill of her, and are we talking about the same woman, or do you have another wife named Amelia somewhere?”

“Stop being sardonic. It’s annoying.”

“Ever since you've married her, she’s been horrible.” She knew she wasn’t being completely fair since they got along occasionally. Amelia wasn't as bad as other stepmother's she'd seen.

“And you haven’t been making trouble or been rude to her?”

“When did I have the time to be rude other than during the rare visits you make here? From the beginning, the two of you sent me away to school. The only time I’m curt with her is when she is to me. I want to be able to make my own choice in what I want to do without—”

“You don’t have the right, and Amelia is letting you know it. You’re a woman and need to act like a lady instead of enacting such ridiculous lunacies. Regardless of what you want, you will eventually have to marry if we can find someone for you.”

Riza knew he was right, but she couldn’t help but cling to the hope she’d find a way out of the typical path a woman took. “I will not marry Archer.” She walked over to the desk so she’d be as far away from her father as possible. If she hit him a second time it would be a punch, and he might hit back.

She picked up a small letter opener and paid special care to the engraving on the handle so she could keep her temper controlled.

“I won’t force Archer on you,” he said. “But you have to marry. That is why I’m here. There’s a baron in Southern Amestris who has expressed an interest in meeting you. I’ll invite him here for a while. If all goes well, you’ll marry him. He’s a widower with three children, so you don’t have to have a child. You’ll be there only for appearance sake. You won’t resist the match if he likes you. You will marry him, and if you keep dissenting, I’ll permit Archer to court then marry you. Do we have an understanding?”

Riza gripped the letter opener tighter and turned to him. The cool blade dug into her skin and her blood rushed over the silver metal like thick raspberry syrup. The way the words passed his lips sent a jolt of reality through her body. “I understand, Lord Hawkeye.”

“You know better than to call me that,” he said. “The things I do are for your own —Riza!” Her father grabbed her wrist. “Let go of it.” He pried the letter opener from her grasp and looked at her palm. “This needs tend—”

She yanked her hand away from his. “It’s fine,” she said. “She didn’t look at him as she walked to the door. She opened it but stopped at the doorway. She turned around. “You should keep the beard,” she said. “It suits you now.”

 

**-/-/-**

Riza stepped upon the bottom stair when she arrived at the staircase but made no movement to ascend. She thought about going outside for a walk since it expedited in calming her temper, but decided to go out at night when everyone was resting. When everything was quiet.

When her palm made contact with the newel, she hissed as the pain from her cut hand transferred up her arm. She ascended the stairs torpidly; anemically lifting her foot with each step and bringing it back down with a heavy thump. She made no move to quiet the click of heels on the floor or lighten the footfalls.

She let her hand trail upon the railing, lifting the skin at the cut. The blood pouring from the injury aggrandized the shiny marble surface. The redness ran down the balusters and pooled in the spiral of the newel at the base of the staircase as if someone had purposely poured paint into the small helix gorges.

She looked at the top of the stairs, but her gaze wasn’t focused on anything in particular. After the scene with her father, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen to her. Her stomach contracted and tingled with nerves when she realized she had no way out this time. Her father was adamant she’d marry. She’d fought him for years, and now not only did she have no way to do so, she didn’t feel like putting forth the effort anymore. She was tired of pushing against immovable feelings and intentions.

She was broken. They'd won.


End file.
